Whitney Houston

I’m surprised at how sad I am at the news of Whitney Houston’s death. And not because I was a huge fan either. I think it’s because in an ever increasing sea of autotune, miming and talentless pop muppets, she had a gloriously pure voice, clear and effortless. It’s only when you hear deluded X-Factor wannabes screeching and mumbling their way through her songs (for some reason Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey were the songs most really bad auditionees chose to ruin) that you realise just how difficult they are to sing.

But Mariah Carey has survived and now has squillions in the bank, a semblance of a private life, and two proper bonkersly named children, whereas Whitney, the ultimate Good Girl with the gospel voice spiralled into hardcore drug abuse. It’s such a waste. But what gets me is the way the tabs with their usual glee (not very carefully disguised as concern) are very keen to pick over the last few hours of her life looking for signs. Her drug use isn’t in question but it’s the way that the tabs trumpet her dishevelled appearance, in the way that when a female celeb is papped with chipped nail polish, or un blow dried hair this is used as proof that said celeb is having an emotional crisis. Or a fat crisis. Or maybe even a thin crisis. If her knicker line is visible then she’s definitely about to kill herself.

We know that Whitney had a history of major drug use, but of course the number one sign in a female celebrity that she’s on the verge of a meltdown is the fact she looks a right state. Right state meaning not polished, primped and glossed to perfection. Normal. So Whitney’s imminent death from a cocktail of prescription drugs and alcohol was clearly signposted by her looking noticeably disheveled with wet hair and mismatched clothes, waving her arms around frantically. In other words 98% of the population on a Monday morning.